


Unknown, still

by kagirinai



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Dry Humping, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Smut, One-Shot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Time Skip, Smut, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 19:29:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18531646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagirinai/pseuds/kagirinai
Summary: Of bottled up feelings and overflowing emotions





	Unknown, still

**Author's Note:**

> A short thing I tried as I have never written anything like this before.  
> Takes place anytime after the time-skip, after a particularly emotionally testing week in my head-canon. I figured if there's any way the both of them would act on anything, it'd be in the heat of the moment, with angst as their fuel.  
> Enjoy!

His body just won’t move. 

He should pull away, but it’s becoming increasingly hard to think straight with their bodies pressed hard together, a pair of hot lips crushing on his mouth, then further down, kissing his jaw, sucking red bites on his neck. Wet and trembling, vibrating against his skin. Fierce, yet hesitant, as if waiting for an answer, a permission of some sort, words, maybe only sounds hushed in the silence of the room. Signs he’s not willing to give, or rather, openings he would in no way reveal if he had a choice.

But he apparently hasn’t got one, since his treacherous body keeps still, refusing to respond to any rational thought. 

Yes, because he is fully aware now that the reason he’s not moving - _has not moved for the last five minutes_ \- has very little to do with his having been cornered against the door and even less with the strength of the hands pressing him in place, one gripping firmly at his right shoulder, the other steading his hips on the left side. 

He could easily push them away if he wanted. It would take him no effort. He is incredibly strong after all, _the strongest_ , and despite the other being way taller ( _ridiculously_ so, with ridiculous long limbs and ridiculous tanned skin and bright eyes and with the most ridiculous smile he directs at him for some unfathomable reason), he’s sure he could make his way out of the situation with seconds to spare. 

Not that it’d really require strength, to do so.

As much as he wants to avoid thinking about it, it’s not like he’s being forced there. Quite the opposite. The problem, _the problem_ is that those arms are holding on to him in the most desperate and somehow delicate way he’s ever been touched, their grip firm but insecure, both strong and unsteady, maybe from want, or need, maybe to let him have his space, a choice. 

Tightening only to loosen up a bit in an afterthought, then holding again, on and on like this for seconds, minutes. An intoxicating merry-go-round that sends his head spinning.

He’s not quite sure what to do with it, feels pretty clueless as his own arms rest still by his sides and his mind still refuses to process any kind of helpful thought if not for the realization that he’s embarrassingly managed to put together about twenty seconds into this mess. 

That being, he’s pinned into place. Literally. 

Immobile and weak from this feeling that’s making its way through the soft lips lightly brushing on his skin, warm and mellow like honey drops, lightening up everywhere they touch, his mouth, his veins, all the way down to his neglected heart that is somehow aching in all the right ways, beating erratically, as if it had forgotten how to do so and had messily tried to remember all at once.

Still, it’s better to stay still, he thinks, _orders_ himself to, for if he can’t really muster the mental strength to push him away he won’t indulge him in this, either. Can’t, for he feels painfully well that if he were to initiate any kind of movement now it will probably go in a complete opposite direction of common sense. 

He tries his hardest, he really does. 

Tries to find it in himself to deny the sweet dizziness that’s slowly filling his soul, replacing the shadows there with a bright, fuzzy sensation seeping through his veins and whispering of ineffable, unspeakable things. Desire, lust, affection and something else he doesn’t dare naming as green eyes look up at his in devotion from under his chin, half-lidded, pouring colour into grey. Hot breaths and moans mingled and hushed against the too sensitive skin there. Warm, heavy pressure against him, slowly, sending jolts from his stomach all the way to his clothed legs. 

 

“ _Eren_ ” 

 

A hush, low and unsteady and that has used up all the remaining air in his aching lungs - _he_ ’ _s pretty_ _sure he_ ’ _s stopped breathing at one poin_ t _or has simply forgotten how t_ o- meant to reprimand him, warn him and make him come to his senses and somehow ended up to only resembling a plead escaped from his swollen red lips. Defying the whole point of having opened his mouth in the first place and conversely spurring the other on, seemingly having encouraged him if the thigh now nudging somewhere between his legs serves as any indication.

He swallows down and shuts his lips as tight as it takes to keep down any sound that might bare the mess he’s feeling inside. He doesn’t think the younger needs any more encouragement as it is. Not when he’s obviously, painfully hard already against him, anyway. He must notice, for he gets back to attack his throat, kissing it, scraping over it with his teeth with a kind of desperate eagerness that is so typical of him and everything he does. Lets a low moan fall under his chin, as he nudges it with his nose in a gesture that’s far too affectionate and erotic at the same time.

He closes his eyes in an attempt to focus, only to realise his mistake as soon as his eyelids come close and all he can hear are muffled noises, huffed so close to his ear in damp and hot puffs of air. His unsteady breath. The wet smack of lips on his burning skin, setting it on fire as he lets his legs be spread further apart a bit, hips pressing against his own. Once. Twice.

 

“Fuck. Eren.”

 

It’s good, there’s no way he can ever deny it. The pressure is just right, the friction so amazingly sweet it’s sending his head spinning, together with the too little oxygen and the too many sensations he is in no way used to feel. Overwhelming. Good, better, even better than he had ever thought. And he had thought about it, had imagined it despite himself, in rare dreams or in the confused border between sleep and consciousness, where his rational thoughts couldn’t hold him back, only to mentally scold himself after, before doing it again. His name sometimes slipping off his tongue in a breathless huff, in the dead of the night under pristine sheets, like a forbidden prayer. Blaming it on the darkness, on his own old age and loneliness, only to pretend it never happened when the sun rose again in the morning. So many nights, for such a long time. 

Maybe it all explains why he’s finding it so hard now to pretend this closeness isn’t making his legs unsteady as warmth coils up in the pit of his stomach under the soft touch of those slender fingers that he has imagined on his own - _hands_ ,  _skin_ ,  _body_ \- much more than he’d like to admit, delicate but firm as they travel up his abdomen, trace his chest, lifting his shirt up to feel skin under skin. Burning trails that set everywhere they touch on fire.

 

“This…”

 

So many things he’d like to say. Can’t happen, won’t happen, is wrong, because of us, of who we are and what and where we are and because of me, because you deserve better, _you_... 

 

“ _Please. Please_.” 

 

It’s a soft whisper, a confession deposited under his chin, and it’s a broken plead, low and terribly hot. Needy.

 

_Let me_

 

It rushes straight through his veins, together with the distant realisation that he has never find it in himself to deny him a thing. Not even now, no, as the other keeps on holding onto him, fingertips pressed down on his skin, tracing the small of his back, pushing him forward again as his nails dig a bit deeper, his pants growing in volume only to be muffled under the crook of his neck, lips against humid skin, face hidden as he gets back to lightly biting and sucking the skin there.

He’s finding it hard to breathe. 

Feels a distant ache in his chest, though it differs from the pain he’s grown used to know. It’s sweet, a wicked tenderness that is threatening to finally break down his worn-out heart for good, infecting his body with a relentless impulse as the last of his stern defenses breaks down. 

He’s not quite sure where he’s started meeting the irregular thrusts of hips with his own, slow, and hard, hands gripping desperately at the other’s shoulder blades to keep his balance under movements that are becoming more urgent with every passing second. He does realise however that he’s been moaning too, softly between closed lips, low as the other’s hair nuzzle his neck and trembling lips kiss shivers on his skin. It feels like every part of him is buzzing. His smell is everywhere, his hands, caressing, scratching. His voice enveloping him in needy sighs and soft whispers. 

More. He needs more of it. 

His body won’t stop burning, sweetly aching, and he’s pretty sure his heart is combusting as well somewhere inside his chest. Whatever thought left on his mind has long been sent for a ride, as his brain has seemingly become capable of registering only the swirling sensations around him and the particularly hard roll of hips that has left his body trembling and has forcefully opened his lips in a swallowed cry. 

More. He needs much more.

 

“ _Faster_.”

 

Barely a whisper against the other’s ear, breathy and hot, soft enough for a part of him to hope he’s not even heard it. He can feel his own skin flushing in a mix of arousal and embarrassment taken too far, distantly hoping this is not the time the other decides to raise his head from where it’s buried on his neck. He doesn’t, instead continues nipping at his skin as another moan escapes his throat in response, his right hand now on his hair, intertwining the fingers through the strands there as he takes to the order like he would with any other. 

It’s messy and hot and he’s not quite sure he’s ever felt the overwhelming urge to touch somebody so strongly in his life. Despite his desire to feel bare, tanned skin under his touch all he finds is layers of fabric that he urgently moves away to reach for his nape, his shoulders, the flexed muscles of his arms where he caresses and grips tightly as his whole body suddenly trembles and his breath hitches. He’s not sure whether it’s the half-strained sound he’s cried out or his nails digging down hard into the other’s arm that sends him over the edge right along with him, mouth biting down on the skin of his shoulder to swallow a loud moan. 

He doesn’t really want to indulge too much in the spike of disappointment he’s feeling for it to be over, no, he’d rather bask in this brief and transient afterglow that feels too dangerously pleasant. He leans on the door, legs a bit unsteady but somehow supporting both of them as the other has shifted his weight over him and is not moving from there, finally still as both their chests heave. Knocks his head against the wood the door behind once, then lets his eyes open again and stares at the wall in front, a hiss finding its way through his teeth. 

 

“Shit.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are very very much appreciated if you have constructive criticism or if you simply liked it!


End file.
